


Ash & Sky

by Violenne



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers to Friends, F/M, Nimulot - Freeform, Season 2, attempting a MWF update schedule, redemption arc, reylo vibes, that's rough buddy, there's also only one brain cell, there's only one bed, two little murderers falling in love, zutara vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violenne/pseuds/Violenne
Summary: Both are haunted by terrible powers. She would never betray her people. He's left the only faith he ever knew. She doesn't trust him, he doesn't like her. They prefer the other one dead.But they might just be the only ones who understand each other.A continuation of where season 1 leaves off.
Relationships: Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 250
Kudos: 709





	1. Chapter 1

The world above the water was filled with storms and screams. Her loved ones and her enemies. On that bridge, just like every moment before, she had to be the Wolf-Blood Witch. The savior to her people. Powerful enough to defeat anything without faltering, without admitting weakness. She had to convince everyone that she was more than a scared young girl, so she couldn’t let herself remember that that was exactly what she was.

Nimue didn’t want to die. But as she sank into the water, her blood clouding the blue, the sounds of the world above faded away. All was calm here. It was easy to focus on the pain. Straightforward, just like she’d wanted when she’d offered herself to Uther in exchange for the safety of her friends. She could feel pain if she knew she was taking it from someone else.

Merlin and Morgana had to have gotten away. Pym and Arthur were safe. That’s what she let herself believe as she sank. She didn’t open her eyes or reach for the surface. She was so, so tired. She had done all she could for them. She loved them. 

She could hear the voices of the Hidden rippling through the water. Coming to claim her. She was going to go home to them. Home to her mother. She was so relieved. They darted around her. The water seemed to freeze. She was suspended, unmoving. Time may have passed. She no longer felt the need to breathe. To move. To be anyone.

Then the Hidden’s whispers turned to hisses. The cool water boiled. 

Nimue struggled to open her eyes. Through the blood she could barely make out the cloudy light of the sun above. There was something in the water with her. Something dangerous.

She struggled to get away, to summon her powers. But she was weakened from two arrows, from the blood loss. 

She couldn’t fight the strong hands that tore through the water and dragged her back to the world above. 

# # #

If the boy said one more word, Lancelot would forget all of the trinity guards he’d slaughtered, the ties he’d cut to his faith, and newfound loyalty to his fellow Fey kind, and slit his little throat. 

“You’re not as ugly now, without that dirty hood.” Percival said, munching on an apple. They’d past through a small orchard a while back. They were traveling through the forest now, away from Gramaire. The sun dried the blood on the side of Lancelot’s face, but he didn’t wipe it away. Let it be a reminder for now. Like the scars across his back — reminders of a different betrayal.

“Can you think of no better insult?” Lancelot muttered, urging the horse to move a little faster. Pain was building in his skull. He wasn’t interested in encountering any more Red Paladins. He wasn’t sure what he would do if faced with them again. Could he slaughter more of his people to protect this little boy? Or was this little boy his people now?

“They won’t accept you back just like that,” Percival continued. Another loud crunch of the apple. Pain throbbed in Lancelot’s temple. “Not after all the villages you’ve destroyed. Mine too. Nimue will never — ”

“Hush.” The pain was echoing through his head now. Growing and ricocheting until it became louder. Became voices.

Lancelot drew the horse to a sudden stop. 

“Are you going to just leave me here to die? That’s just as bad as letting them kill me. You haven’t changed — ”

Lancelot clicked his tongue, pulling the horse sharply to the right. He knew this feeling. He knew these voices. Every Fey felt different. And this one — 

He would never forget the sound of her, the feel of her near. His constant prey, always slipping just out of reach. And now she was near. 

And she was in danger.

He urged the horse down the tree-filled slope, galloping over fallen branches and boulders. The little voices that always accompanied her were shrieking, crying out.

“What are you doing!” the boy said, gripping the saddle. “Are you taking me to — ”

“I”m taking you to your Queen,” Lancelot said, keeping his grip on the boy so he didn’t go flying out of the saddle as they raced down the hill towards those voices. He could feel her the closer they got. The sharpness of pain. The coolness of water.

Too much water.

“And she’s in danger,” Lancelot hissed as Percival tried to hit his arm.

The boy shut up.

They tore through the trees. She was dying. He could feel it. He couldn’t stop to ask himself if maybe he should let her die. No, he couldn’t let her die without finding her first. She’d been his quest for too long. He had to reach her. Save her, even. If only to kill her himself. 

The trees turned to jagged boulders. The sound of a waterfall rumbled. They were getting closer. Just as she got closer to her end. Those voices were screams now, urging him forward. 

Lancelot barely slowed the horse before he leapt off it. Percival yelled something at him but he trusted the boy could stay on the saddle. Or at least fall safely. 

He ran, leaping over the rocks. The voices were screaming, shrieking. He could almost feel the cool water within his own lungs. He threw off his grey cloak, unbuckled his sword belt, and sprinted to the edge of the boulder.

And dove straight down.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Lancelot hit the water the voices vanished. For a second his heart stopped. Was it because she was dead? He swam down into the dark towards the shape of her. She certainly looked dead. Still and surrounded by bloody water.

But that water wasn’t moving. Her hair wasn’t drifting in the current and her body wasn’t sinking. There was some force that had kept her here. Frozen. 

Until him. He could see the ripples from his body reach her. They seemed to reanimate her, and the voices turned from screams to murmurs as he swam closer. He could see the ends of an arrow — no, two arrows protruding from her chest. By God. She had to be dead.

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. The voices were whispering faster now, and she was starting to sink, as if his arrival had broken whatever suspension held her here. The blood pooled away faster from her, only the faintest of bubbles leaving her lips. He swam forward, his heavy tunic and boots weighing him down.

There were no more thoughts of leaving her to drown. No, only the blade was good enough for the Fey Queen. 

He just wasn’t sure which one of them would be the one to wield it.

Her eyes fluttered. The voices seemed to swell in response. He could never make out their exact words, but he had thoughts of his own drowning them out now. Save her. Save her.

He grabbed her wrist. 

Her eyes flashed open, a startling blue, brighter than the water. Dark green leaves traced her cheeks and he felt the thrum of magic beneath her skin. But he had never been afraid of the Wolf-Blood Witch.

With all his strength, he tugged her up towards the light.

# # #

Nimue was on fire. She could feel it crawling across her skin. Sensation drifted in slowly. The sun, hot on her face. The weight of her soaked dress. Her feet, still submerged in water. 

A hand on her shoulder. A shadow blocking out the sun.

Then, agonizing pain.

She screamed, and then choked on water. The shadow moved above her and something clattered to her right. In a haze, Nimue managed to tilt her head to see the length of a bloodstained arrow laying on the boulder next to her.

As soon as she realized what had happened, the second arrow was ripped out of her.

She almost passed out from the pain. There were hands on her chest. A strange heat traveled through her body from them. Had Merlin returned to heal her? 

She blinked her eyes open, squinting through the sunlight to try to make out the shape of the shadow above her. Wisps of dark brown hair escaped his low bun, and she made out the glint of his blue eyes, narrowed in concentration. Blood caked his face. She didn’t recognize him.

Until she saw the tears.

Nimue inhaled sharply. The Weeping Monk looked up from her wounds, and for the first time she stared into the eyes of the man who had butchered her people and destroyed her village.

He held her gaze, keeping his hands on her shoulder and chest, staunching the blood flow. He didn’t move or speak. He looked so different without his hood. No longer a harbinger of death. Just a man, hair wet from the water, staring at her intensely.

So intensely that he didn’t see Nimue’s hand slowly reach to her right and grab the arrow.

“You,” she breathed, and his expression changed from wariness to something cold and dark. There. That was the expression she imagined when she thought of him killing her kind.

She didn’t hesitate as she brought the arrow up to stab him in the neck.

He grabbed her wrist, plucked the arrow out of it as if confiscating a toy from a child, and tossed it over his shoulder into the lake without looking away from her.

Nimue struggled to sit up, calling on the Hidden as he kept his grip on her wrist. “Let me go,” she said, even as dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel the blood run down her dress.

But she could also feel her powers, crawling across her cheeks and lighting up her blood.

“No need for sorcery,” the Weeping Monk leaned in, fingers tightening around her wrist. “You don’t want to bleed out.” He glanced down at the rivers of blood across her dress.

“I won’t die from this wound,” Nimue said, even as her vision blurred. The Hidden murmured closer. “I’ll die fighting you.”

Before the Weeping Monk could move, vines shot out from under the boulder, shattering the half of the stone he was sitting on. Nimue stood shakily as she held her hand out to channel her power, pulling the vines downward to drag him down into the watery death that should have been her fate.

In a way, she was jealous. He would finally know peace.

Then there was a sharp skid of metal on rock, and the glint of his blade reflected in the sun. Nimue glanced away just long enough to see where his belt and sheath had been discarded on the rocks beside them. It was enough time for the Weeping Monk to slice through the vines in a single motion, and leap onto the next boulder above the water.

Nimue drew her arms back, feeling the pressure of the trees behind her, summoning them to entrap him again. She could feel her strength fading, but by all the gods she would bring him down with her. She had killed Father Carden and she would destroy his acolyte. 

“Nimue!”

For a moment she thought she was imagining the voice. The Weeping Monk was still watching her, twirling his sword, though he made no move towards her. But when she heard that voice again she had to look. She had to know for sure.

Squirrel was climbing over the rocks at the edge of the lake, his little face dirty and his cloak dusty, but otherwise alright. Safe. 

“Squirrel,” she said, relieved. A wave of dizziness hit her and she stumbled back on the boulder. The Weeping Monk took a step forward but she shot out her hand, curling the vines into a threatening lance beside her.

“Stop!” The little boy said, crawling to the edge of one of the rocks. “He saved me!”

“I saved you, too, for that matter,” The Weeping Monk said, pointing his sword at Nimue. 

“I don’t care,” she snarled. She raised both of her hands, using the last of her strength to summon a wall of vines and leaves beside her, sharpened into points and trained on the Weeping Monk. “I know what you are.”

She sent one of those spears spiraling towards his heart just as Squirrel cried out.

The Weeping Monk grabbed it with his bare hand. 

He examined the bark and leaves, then looked back at Nimue. She couldn’t read the expression in those blue eyes, focused on her. A beautiful color above those terrible scars.

“Do you?” he said. Then he held up the vine, twisting his fingers around it in the sunlight.

And Nimue watched in horror as his fist faded into the green skin of the Fey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna apologize in advance for the erratic update schedule, but of course I'll do my best to get in a satisfying ending :) I have some idea of where this is going and what situations I want to put these disaster characters in, hopefully soon I'll let you know if this will update weekly or biweekly. Will also be adding to the tags as I realize what new themes are gonna come up in this. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The witch was glaring at him. Lancelot could feel her gaze from across the fire. Even in her drenched dress, her hair drying in tangles, with dark green poultices staining her chest, she managed to summon as much wrath as the fires of hell. After he revealed what he was at the lake, the boy had begged her to spare his life. He still wasn’t sure why she did. If it was because of the boy or because of what he was.

Now the boy slept by the fire, wrapped in his cloak. His horse was tied a ways off in the trees, grazing on the sparse grass. The witch sat against a tree across the fire. Watching him.

The voices were quieter now that she was awake. Or maybe now they were quiet because he’d found her. All his time hunting her, he’d just wanted those voices to end. He never told Father Carden how it felt when he sensed another of his kind. He was sure Father Carden would say that they were the words of the Devil luring him to the Fey girl. 

What would he tell Father Carden now that he’d saved her? That he hadn’t taken the opportunity to silence those voices forever? 

Maybe he wouldn’t have to tell Father Carden that. Maybe he was just taking his time to end her. He could bring Father Carden her head. Show that he had always been a loyal servant.

He glanced over at the boy again. He would end the girl. She’d slaughtered other red paladins. She was a danger to God’s light and all His followers. But the little Fey boy, Percival — he was innocent. 

He wouldn’t believe that the Devil could corrupt children. 

He could take the boy under his wing, as Father Carden did to him. But he wouldn’t be like Father Carden. There wouldn’t be as much blood, as much hatred. He would teach the boy to deny his evil nature and follow in the Lord’s light better than Lancelot ever had. Perhaps that was the true path God had set forth for him. 

“Stop looking at him,” The witch muttered. The fire leapt, sparks reflecting in her cold eyes. “You may have saved his life but you can’t protect him. Not against the red paladins.”

Lancelot didn’t answer. He focused on the fire. He’d wait until she fell asleep to pray. To ask for guidance on what to do with the boy. 

He already knew what to do with her. He just needed the strength.

“What is your plan? To slaughter your fellow paladins in order to protect him? I don’t think you have the guts. You may have saved me,” the girl continued. “But you are not one of my people.”

Lancelot bit his tongue. There was no need to tell her that he had no interest in being one of her people. How could she be the Queen of the Fey? Someone as rude and ungrateful as her? Father Carden was raised as a peasant just like her, but at least he had gravitas and presence. You could believe that he was the leader of the Lord’s army.

The girl sat back and pressed the green poultices to her chest. If God was kind he would deny her Fey healing magic and let her bleed out. 

No. He didn’t want that. He wanted her death to be by his sword. 

So why was he waiting?

“What did he tell you, to make you serve him?” She whispered across the fire. It seemed they were at least united in not wanting to wake the boy. “He hated our kind. Made it his entire life purpose to see us wiped out. Did he offer you safety? Did he offer you love?”

“The chance I have at salvation,” Lancelot murmured. “Is a path that is no longer open to you. Not after the blood you’ve spilt.”

“And what of the blood you have spilled?” She leaned forward. The fire lit up the blue of her eyes. “Is that your Lord’s salvation?”

“It would be a waste to explain His word to you,” Lancelot said. He pressed his stick into the fire again, sending the flames higher. “You don’t seem to be an apt pupil.”

“That’s true,” she leaned back against the tree trunk. He could see how shallow her breaths were, how pain furrowed her brow. Still she refused to sleep. “I was never an attentive student.” She lifted her chin. “And it would be difficult to pay attention to a dead teacher.”

“I’m not dead yet,” Lancelot said. 

“No, but Father Carden is.” A smile curved the edge of her mouth. “And I was the one who killed him.”

He didn’t stop to question if the Devil or God was guiding his actions. In one motion, he leapt through the fire and dragged her up, his hand on her neck, pressing her back against the tree.

She didn’t move. Just lifted her chin to meet his gaze. What did she see in his own eyes? Pain? Anger?

Relief?

His other hand gripped his sword. This was the sign from God he had been waiting for. The witch had killed the Lord’s most devoted servant, along with her other crimes. No matter the Trinity Guards he had killed — he would redeem himself to the church by bringing them her head. He would have forgiveness for his moment of weakness.

So why couldn’t he draw his damned sword?

“Why are you waiting?” Her gaze was haughty, despite the pain and blood. He understood now what Carden had meant. How beautiful the Devil made its creatures. “It’s not because you believe me innocent, like him.” She looked down at the boy, then back at Lancelot. “Is it because you know that when you kill me you truly will have no chance at redemption?”

Lancelot didn’t answer, trying to control his breathing. His hand was still tight around her throat, not enough to stop air, but enough to hold her. 

“Let me make it easy for you,” she breathed. “Even if I live, you will never be accepted by the Fey. There is no forgiveness for you among our kind.”

It should have been enough to kill her. That final stifling of that secret want he hadn’t even let himself think of. The same strange hope that had led him to rescue the boy. 

That there might be a world for him beyond the holy word he had learned. Beyond the pain and self-hatred.

He might not know which world he was loyal to, but he knew he wouldn’t survive in either while she was alive.

Lancelot leaned in to watch the life leave her eyes as he squeezed her throat. But there wasn’t fear or pain in her gaze. 

There was...triumph.

His eyes narrowed, examining her. One of her hands held the poultice to her chest, the other held loosely at her side. No move to grab the sword or dagger at his side. No creeping leaves across her face to indicate her magic.

“You want me to kill you,” he murmured. “You want me to be a monster.”

“You already are one,” she said, and he could tell that she meant for there to be heat behind the words, but it was too late — he’d seen the flicker of fear. Not at the idea of being killed.

At being left alive.

Could the witch’s existence truly be more terrible than the idea of death?

Then if his role was to bring her pain, his choice was clear. He felt relief wash over him. Now he understood the Lord’s plan. If the girl wanted to die, to be freed from the curse of being a demon, then he wouldn’t be the one to bring her peace. He would keep her alive. Bring her to the church. Whether they punished her or tried to turn her to their cause like him, she would feel suffering as he had.

“Then if your mind is made up,” he said, lifting his hand from her throat. “There’s no need for me to add to the evidence.”

Now there was pure fury in her look. So he had ruined her plans after all.

She raised her hand, and a branch above her curled around to face him, its end pointed. He stepped back and drew his sword. He knew she was trying to bait him. He could play this game.

“Nimue? Lancelot?”

They both turned to see the boy raise his head, hair mussed from sleep, staring at them from the forest floor.

“Lancelot?” the witch slowly looked back at him, frowning. The branches above her wavered, leaves curling in.

“Is it more difficult to kill a monster once he has a name?” he said. She looked him up and down, and in the shadows he couldn’t see the expression in her eyes.

“Are you fighting already?” Percival scrambled to his feet. “I told you, Nimue. He saved me. And you — ” he pointed at Lancelot’s unsheathed sword. “Why are you trying to make things worse for yourself?”

He slid the blade back into his belt with a smooth motion. The witch walked over to the boy, kneeling beside him. “Get some rest, Squirrel. I’m sorry.” 

“Promise you won’t hurt him?” The little boy grabbed the bottom of her dress.

She glanced over her shoulder at Lancelot. He crossed his arms, watching her. 

“He will stand trial at the Fey court,” she said. “And I make no promises on what will happen after that.” 

“I’ll vouch for him,” the boy said, looking across the fire towards Lancelot. “I’m a knight now. Gawain said so. My word is good.”

“Your word is good, sweet boy,” she took his hand and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “But blood is blood. Those he’s killed — ”

“But he’s our blood. Didn’t you see it, Nimue? Don’t you believe him?” He pointed at Lancelot. “He’s Fey, like us. You can’t kill him. There are so few of us left.”

She looked back at Lancelot again. Her eyes were hard. 

“And he is the reason there are so few,” she murmured.

Lancelot looked down at the hatred in her gaze. Certainty thrummed in his veins. The witch was tired of fighting. She’d given herself up and Uther and Father Carden hadn’t managed to kill her because God wanted her alive. Wanted her to suffer for what she’d done. 

And he was ready to be the instrument of God’s wrath.


	4. Chapter 4

It was far past midnight, and Nimue still had not slept. Neither had the Weeping Monk. Lancelot.

He was right. Now that he had a name and not just a fearsome title, it was more difficult to think about killing him.

But not impossible.

He sat against another tree, leaning his head back against it. His eyes were shut, but Nimue knew he was not sleeping. There was no rise and fall of breath in his body. He was unnaturally still. The moonlight illuminated the dark red scars under his eyes. Nimue would not find them so terrible if they had been on the face of any other man.

She really thought he was going to kill her. She had felt so certain in the lake that she belonged there, passing into the realm of the Hidden and whatever her destiny was. She wanted to move on. Hadn’t she done enough for the Fey and the humans of this world? She’d died for them. Almost. 

But he’d seemed to know that she wanted that. Smart of him to refuse to martyr her. If she died at his hands, nothing would stop Arthur and her court from bringing hell down on the Weeping Monk and all of the red paladins. 

Very well. She could summon her own hell while she was still alive.

The fire between them was nearly dead. Squirrel slept soundly. She’d stopped the bleeding with the help of the herbs she’d foraged to help close the wounds, but there was still a constant throbbing pain in her chest and shoulder. She shivered in the night air. Her dress was still soaked, and her long hair was still wet. She was so terribly tired. 

But she wouldn’t let her guard down around this man.

“Once Squirrel is safe and out of sight,” she murmured across the embers. “I will kill you.” 

And then she sneezed.

The corner of his lips tugged upward. He still didn’t open his eyes as he replied, “You should get out of that wet dress.”

Nimue’s cheeks warmed. The fire crackled. The twigs beside the Weeping Monk shivered to life with her power, darting at him.

He brushed them aside with his arm, sending them into the fire. His eyes drifted open slowly. “Not that I’m interested in anything beneath it.”

“Same to you,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest. “Put your hood back on. I dislike looking at your horrifying face.”

“My face?” His whisper was as dark as the cold wind. She didn’t know what to do with those pale eyes trained on her. She couldn’t look away. “Now you sound like the boy. Ugliness is not an insult to those who have powers other than beauty.”

She scoffed at his words, and looked away into the shadows of the forest. She couldn’t say that he was ugly. No, even with those scars, even knowing what he’d done, she could appreciate the slant of his cheekbones in the moonlight, the curve of his jaw.

She couldn’t look at him. Not because he wasn’t ugly, but because he was right. She’d known for a while that beauty was one of her powers.

And without the sword...did she have any worthwhile powers at all? Other than the Hidden, who she couldn’t control, who only saved her when she was in danger. 

Nimue gripped her knees. If she had stayed in Dewdenn and agreed to become Summoner, could she have learned how to use powers of her own, without relying on the sword? If she could have stayed with Merlin, would he have taught her wizardry of her own?

“You should sleep,” the Monk’s low voice carried across the clearing.

“I don’t rest easy in front of my enemies,” she said to the shadows, still looking away from him.

“No, you only freeze to death or faint in front of them.”

Nimue looked over at him sharply to see that he was standing. She scrambled back, placing her hand on the trunk to try to get to her feet.

“Easy,” he held out his hand in front of him, as if to calm a skittish horse. She tried to call to the Hidden, tried to summon some amount of strength as he approached and tugged something out of his belt.

He held his dagger towards her.

Hilt first.

Nimue stared at it. 

“I don’t need that to kill you.” She glared up at him.

“This isn’t for killing. It’s for sleeping.” He took a step forward, extending it again. “Won’t you feel better if our weapons are even?”

Nimue kept her steadying grip on the tree trunk behind her, glancing between the reflection of the fire across the blade and his calm pale eyes.

“Then I want your sword.”

He let out a sharp laugh. It was so unexpected that Nimue slid down the tree, sitting again. She could only stare at him as the corner of his eyes creased, momentarily changing the shape of those scars. He shook his head, with that small smile curving his lips. His laugh was deep.

When his eyes met hers again, she tried to force anger back into her gaze and erase the wonder.

“Injured, ungrateful, and still greedy.” He knelt, resting his forearm on the other knee and twirling the knife. “Is this always how maidens repay their rescuers?”

“It’s how Queens demand what is theirs.” She darted forward and grabbed the hilt of his sword.

He wrapped his hand over her grip on the hilt. With his other hand he flipped the dagger and used its point to tilt her chin up. Nimue didn’t look away from his pale blue eyes.

“I don’t see a Queen,” he murmured, tilting her head to the side with the blade. He kept her hand trapped against the hilt of his sword, but with her other Nimue grabbed at the dagger. 

He tugged her hand to the side and removed his grip on her, so that the force of her reach threw her weight to the ground. She coughed on the dirt and clutched at her chest, feeling pain slice through her chest.

The Weeping Monk pushed her onto her back, still kneeling. He hovered over her, a wraith in the woods. 

“I see a scared little girl,” he murmured. He tilted his head, examining the fresh blood dripping down her dress. “One who doesn’t have much power of her own without her special little sword.”

Nimue let out a pained laugh. “Then go ahead and end me.”

He was still considering her wound. He reached for her shoulder and Nimue summoned enough strength to slap his hand away. He grabbed her hand and pressed it into the ground beside her head, not hard enough to be painful but solid and unyielding.

“God has a different plan for you,” he murmured, and his long fingers brushed at the sticky green of the poultice on her wound. “Besides, you don’t want to die. Only the fires of hell wait for you there.”

Nimue couldn’t respond. She was right. Somehow he had sensed what she wanted and kept it from her.

It wasn’t exactly that she wanted to die. She just wanted to step out of the role of Witch and Queen and even the name Nimue. She didn’t want to be anyone important enough to keep dying for. She didn’t want people to keep getting hurt around her.

Was it so wrong for her to want her story to be over?

“I don’t believe you,” she breathed. “You don’t want me alive.”

“I don’t,” he peeled back the edge of her dress to examine her wound, and Nimue flinched. His hand grabbed her other wrist as if sensing her thoughts. “Like I said, the Lord does. And I am his loyal servant.”

“You will just betray me to the red paladins as soon as they find us.” Nimue searched his expression as he leaned over her, carefully packing the poultice into her wound with his fingers.

“I’m avoiding them myself,” he said in his low whisper. 

“Then what is your plan? Why stay with me and Squirrel?” She bit her lip against the sting of the herbs on her skin. She struggled against his grip but he still held her wrists calmly.

“I will travel to Rome,” he said. Now his gaze returned to hers. “And your warriors, and their newfound Viking allies, will be so grateful that I’ve returned their Queen to them that they will grant me passage on their ship.”

Nimue let out a sharp laugh, then quickly strained her neck to see Squirrel. He didn’t stir. She looked back up at the Weeping Monk.

“You really are estranged from your culture if you think we are so easily bought,” she hissed at him.

He slowly released her hands, and Nimue scrambled back. “I don’t think you should be so quick to deny an escort back to the shore. These woods are full of dangerous beings.” His eyes became pure shadow with the fire at his back.

“I know,” Nimue said. “I’m one of them.”

She dug her fingers into the dirt and reached out to the Hidden, tugging at those voices that had saved her so many times. She imagined branches piercing his heart, leaves choking his lungs.

Nothing happened.

Nimue felt sweat trickle down her temple as she stared at the Weeping Monk. The Hidden weren’t answering her. That never happened. They had chosen her. They came when she called. When she — 

When she was in danger.

Nimue stared at him. At Lancelot. It couldn’t be that her powers had left her. That meant that the Hidden didn’t think she needed rescuing.

“Swear it,” she said, swallowing and lifting her chin. “Swear that you won’t harm Squirrel and I.”

He sat back on the forest floor, one arm draped over his knee. “And what gods shall we swear by?”

Nimue dug her fingers down into the earth again, listening for the Hidden. Was she right? Did they trust this Monk?

“I’ll swear by yours if you’ll swear by mine,” she said.

His lips thinned as he considered her. “I don’t think mine would listen to you.” 

“Likewise,” Nimue spat.

He glanced over his shoulder, then back to her. “On the boy’s life, then.”

Nimue drew in her breath, and then nodded. “That, at least, I believe.” 

He nodded and extended his hand.

Nimue struggled to her feet. “There’s no need for that. The spirits heard us.”

He stood as well, much more smoothly. As he unfolded to his full height Nimue became aware of how tall he was. She was so distracted by it that at first she didn’t notice as he began unlacing his tunic.

“And there’s no need for that!” she stumbled backwards, holding her hand out. 

He shrugged out of his tunic, leaving him in only his loose shirt and pants. The fire was so dim. Nimue cursed herself for wishing for more light.

He extended the heavy fabric towards her, and she watched him warily.

“If you’re determined to stay alive after all,” he said. “Then take off your damned dress, and wear this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say huge thanks to all of you for reading, and for all your thoughtful comments! Gonna do my best to update Monday/Wednesday/Friday. Love the nimulot fandom <3


	5. Chapter 5

The soaking wet dress hit Lancelot in the face. He supposed he deserved it. He had been taunting her. Once he realized that God wanted her alive, it became much easier to endure her. 

He slowly peeled the wet fabric off of his skin. By God, it was freezing. It was a wonder she hadn’t died already.

Nimue strode out from behind the tree, walking regally even though his large black tunic swallowed up her small form. It went past her knees. She was so small.

She shot him a glare as if sensing his thoughts. He just turned away, laying her dress across a low branch above the fire.

“I can’t promise you a ship,” she said, and he turned back to her. Her arms were crossed. “I can’t even promise that my court will allow you to live.”

“I suspect we are both uninterested in false promises,” he said.

“But I will honor our bargain,” she glanced behind him at Squirrel. “And will not kill you until we reach the Fey.”

He only inclined his head. He knelt down and stabbed his dagger into the ground, then returned to his side of the fire. He could feel her watching him as he stretched out his long limbs and leaned back against the tree again, closing his eyes. 

He could hear her small feet pad through the fallen leaves, then a soft shuffling. When he cracked an eye open he saw that she was curled up in a ball near the fire, his dagger clutched in her pale fist.

Lancelot closed his eyes again. The witch was no danger to him.

# # #

In his dreams, Father Carden was speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words. Blood pooled out of the old man’s mouth. He reached for Lancelot. His skin turned green. Then grey.

Then to ash.

# # #

Lancelot recognized the feel of steel against his throat. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the witch’s breathing and judging the position of her body by the way she interrupted the sunlight.

His eyes flashed open. There was just a second where he watched her blue eyes widen and both of her hands grip the dagger held against his neck.

Then he pounced.

She shrieked as he threw her onto her back and pulled the dagger out of her hand, twirling it through the air before laying it gently across her own throat.

“I told you,” he murmured. “This was for sleeping, not — ”

“Where is he,” the witch hissed, her eyes sharp enough to make up for her lack of dagger. She pushed Lancelot off of her and kept a grip on his shirt as if she might strangle him. “How did you contact them? Where did they take him?”

“What are you talking about?” he said, hurriedly moving the dagger out of the way so she wouldn’t cut herself in her frantic movements.

“Where is Squirrel?” she said, her voice breaking on the last syllable. Lancelot could feel her hands shaking through her grip on his shirt. 

He looked over his shoulder. Near the embers of the fire there was only the empty folds of his grey cloak.

The boy was gone.

“Did the red paladins take him? How did they find us?” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to him. Lancelot stood, and the witch’s hands slipped from his shirt. She stayed on the ground and pressed her hands into her eyes as Lancelot strode over the fire. The last sparks hissed at his boots as he stepped across the coals to kneel beside his cloak.

He brought it to his nose and sniffed. Then he opened his eyes. There it was. A thin gold trail. He could see another speck of it in the distant trees. He could track him.

He turned to tell the witch, but he stopped short at her expression. She was still kneeling on the ground, swallowed by the dark fabric of his tunic. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and she stared up at him with bottomless eyes.

“Some oath,” she murmured. 

Lancelot didn’t know what to do with that expression of emptiness. He wanted to see her alive again, even if it was murderous anger directed at him.

“I will find the boy,” he said. “We both swore on his life.” He looked back into the trees again to escape the sight of her. It was fading, but there was still that glimmer of gold light. There were no other signs of Fey. That meant the boy had left alone.

Or been taken by humans.

He didn’t tell the witch that. It wouldn’t make sense anyways — the red paladins would hardly leave him, the traitor, and the Wolf-Blood Witch behind while only taking the little boy. But why would he wander off into the woods on his own?

Lancelot strode towards his horse and untied its reins from the low tree branch. When he turned, he nearly jumped. The witch was standing right behind him.

Her eyes were still so empty. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

# # #

As they rode, he could feel her strength fading. Usually when he was tracking, Lancelot would dismount to examine signs in the brush and try to regain the scent. But Nimue’s small body in front of him, frail and jolting with every motion of the horse, made him worried that without the frame of his body she would fall right off. When they’d left their small camp she’d left her dress behind, waving it away when Lancelot offered it, eyes glassy. He wished he could see her expression now, but he wasn’t sure it would be any improvement on earlier.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the witch when she wasn’t trying to kill him. When she wasn’t trying to do anything. There was a heaviness surrounding her. He could sense it, in the same way he had tracked her before. And there was nothing he could do to bring her back.

No. He could find the boy.

He tried his best to follow Percival’s trail while mounted. He wore his cloak again, keeping the boy’s scent close. He left the hood down. 

The trail led them out of the forest after a few hours, bringing them into an open field. Clouds thundered overhead.

“Out in the open,” the witch murmured. 

“Hmm?” Lancelot leaned forward, trying to hear her better.

“They’ll spot us,” she said, still soft.

She was speaking so quietly. Weakly. Lancelot leaned closer as he spoke close to her ear. “The red paladins will head west. They have Uther and the Ice King to contend with, and if Father Carden is truly dead — ” he gripped the reins tightly, trying to reconcile the image of this shell of a girl in front of him killing his mentor. “They won’t have reason to head towards Beggar’s Coast, which is where the boy’s trail leads.”

She didn’t answer. They rode on, grass reaching up to their knees. Lancelot kept his head lowered towards her, trying to listen for the rise and fall of her breath. If he thought that killing her was a challenge, it seemed that keeping her alive was the true test from the Lord.

A glint of gold across the field, but thinner. Lancelot kicked the horse into a gallop just as thunder boomed overhead. Rain would wash away most of the trail, if not all of it. He leaned forward, his thighs supporting her legs and his arms caging her to keep her from falling with the speed. She seemed to barely be able to hold herself up. 

He could see the stormclouds in the distance, and he urged the horse faster. Dark shapes appeared on the horizon — the outlines of buildings.

Lancelot glanced up, trying to locate the position of the sun through the clouds. Still moving east. That would make this village Shorne.

“The boy’s trail leads there,” He raised his arm to point as they raced towards the black gates. “And we need shelter from the storm — ”

The witch’s head lolled to the side, and she toppled off of the horse.

Lancelot jerked the reins back, causing the horse to rear up. He jumped down as if he could catch her before she fell, but of course he was too late. 

She lay in the grass, breathing hard. Her hair was in long dark tangles around her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her full lips curled in agony.

He knelt beside her, turning her onto her back. Her legs were exposed, and he glanced down, looking for any bruises as he ran his hands across them quickly, checking for broken bones. He was about to ask her what happened when he looked up.

Dark blood was pooling across her chest.

Lancelot cursed. He never should have trusted her Fey remedy. He never should have trusted that her silence was due to moodiness and not sickness. How had he not sensed her wounds reopening, the pain she was in?

He carefully put a hand behind her back, helping her to sit up. “We need to make it into the town,” he said. “You need a healer.”

Her eyes opened slowly, surprisingly lucid despite the pain. When she spoke, he could tell that every word was painful. “Leave the horse.”

“You aren’t in a position to discard our resources,” he said, glancing back at his mount to estimate how he could lift her back onto the creature. The sky was turning threateningly dark.

“Target for robbers,” she bit out. “And...the paladins...will recognize it...” she coughed, and blood pooled at the corner of her lips.

That was enough for Lancelot.

He put his other arm underneath her knees, and began to lift her up.

“Wait, wait,” she said, digging her fingers into the dirt.

“We don’t have time to see if your little friends will show up,” he said harshly. “And they didn’t help you before.” Curse her faith in her primitive Fey ways. She might die from these wounds.

Her hands came away full of damp mud, and she pressed both of her palms against his cheeks. For a moment Lancelot just looked down at her eyes, filled with pain but focused even as the effort of lifting her hands strained through her whole body. 

“They’re looking for you,” she murmured, her thumbs stroking the mud under his eyes. Covering his scars. She lowered her hand, swiping mud across her own cheek before her hand collapsed back onto her chest. Her other hand tugged at the hood of his cloak before falling onto his shoulder. “Don’t let it wash off. Tell them...we’re farmers...”

Lancelot tugged his hood over his muddy face, then lifted her up again. Her head fell against his chest, her eyes falling shut. The horse was already wandering away through the grass. He clicked his tongue at it and jerked his head towards the trees, and it took off at a gallop. She was right. Maybe it would lead the paladins away from them.

Perhaps he could understand how she had survived for so long when the entire world was hunting her.

Her small fingers curled around his shoulder, and he looked down. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and that dark stain was spreading across her chest. Larger now.

Lancelot took off at a run towards the gates of Shorne, just as the sky unleashed its storm.


	6. Chapter 6

Nimue was underwater. She couldn’t move, and there was a fire under her skin. She’d been hit by arrows, hadn’t she? She felt as though she’d never left the lake. Like she was still floating there, suspended in her own blood.

No. She wasn’t there still. This was different. The pain again, that was in the same place. But there was something solid beneath her. Something human. Movement. Cold flecks of water against her feverish skin.

Strong arms, carrying her limp body through rain.

Nimue’s eyes flickered. She looked up. She could make out shadows beneath a grey hood and dark skies behind the Weeping Monk. She hoped he had listened to her, and would play the role of farmer and could convince the townspeople they were both harmless.

It would be difficult. He exuded danger. He was lethal, you could tell by the way he moved — 

Nimue squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of the Weeping Monk’s tall frame bending through the air as he drew his sword. When she imagined it, she didn’t feel fear anymore. Only...admiration.

She tried to focus on her breathing. She couldn’t fully inhale — it made the fiery pain worse. She was injured. There must be an infection in her wounds. That was why she was thinking strange things. 

She tried to call to the Hidden, but she had no connection to the earth. She could barely move. Her right hand was wrapped around something solid — a shoulder. She squeezed, weakly.

In the dim light, she saw the hood turn towards her hand. The rain had changed now, no longer falling on them, but still loud. It was darker. They must be inside.

A moment later, Nimue felt the hand holding her shoulder press her closer. 

Voices, dim and distant, trickled into her awareness. She tried to hold onto the feeling of the arms holding her, of the solid shoulder beneath her hand. 

“...a healer...”

“...and this girl? Did you kidnap her?”

“She’s my wife.”

Nimue felt the last three words vibrate through the body holding her. She recognized that deep voice. There was the clinking of keys, and then lantern light fading in and out as they moved up a set of creaking stairs.

“Being...your wife...” she struggled to speak. Was not part of the disguise, she tried to finish, but the Weeping Monk spoke over her.

“Is an endless joy every day, I’m sure,” he murmured. Nimue could make out the shape of a woman in front of them who turned and frowned at their whispered conversation. She held a gold key, and stopped in front of a rickety brown door. 

“The healer will be back after noon tomorrow,” she said to the Monk as she clicked open the lock on the door. “And I want no trouble in the meantime.” she shot him a look that Nimue couldn’t quite interpret. “And no noise.”

“Understood,” he said, in his low voice that made everything sound incredibly grave.

Nimue supposed this situation might be serious. She could be dying. She could hardly summon enough strength to keep her eyes open.

Still, it was very important to her that she correct the ‘wife’ thing before that woman left.

Instead, the Weeping Monk kicked the door closed behind them, shutting her out. He lay Nimue down on the bed. She still had a tight grip on his shoulder, and he hesitated, hovering over her.

“I...” she tried to speak through the fire of her wounds. 

He leaned closer, pulling his hood back and tilting his head to hear her. “What is it?”

“I know we made a pact on Squirrel’s life,” she said. Her vision was blurry. “But if you ever...” she tugged him closer, her fingers curling into the dark fabric of his shirt. “...call me your wife again, I will kill you.”

His lips thinned. “Glad to see your humor survived.” He gently uncurled her fingers from his shirt, then pressed two fingers against her wrist. His pale eyes assessed her wounds in the candlelight. “Though you might not.”

Nimue choked on her laugh. It made the pain worse. “What wonderful bedside manner you have.”

“Hmm,” the Monk said, brow furrowed. Then he reached for the ties of her tunic.

Nimue slapped his hands away.

He looked at her, incredulous. “This is where you’d prefer to die? In some dingy inn?”

“At least let me die with dignity,” Nimue said, clutching the tunic fabric close.

The Weeping Monk leaned forward, pressing her wrist into the pillow above her head. “You may die here. Perhaps that is god’s will. But first, I will examine your wounds. So the only choice you have is whether you allow me to help you, or fight me the whole time.”

“I’ll fi — ”

“I don’t think so.” He cut her off, and easily moved her other hand aside to tug down the shoulder of her tunic. Nimue watched his face carefully, so she caught the slight narrowing in his eyes.

“That bad,” she murmured. “Just bring me outside, and the Hidden can help me — ”

“Yes, rolling around in the dirt is going to be excellent for your injuries.” In a fluid movement, he left the bed and went to a dim corner of the room, where there was a washbasin and a small cracked mirror. He splashed water on his face, rubbing off the mud that obscured his scars. He wet the small towel and brought it along with the bowl back to the bed. 

Nimue bit her lip to keep from crying out as he dabbed at her wounds. He remained silent and focused as she writhed. He held down her arm and dug into the arrow wounds, digging out the last remnants of her poultice. Nimue didn’t look to see how much blood she was losing.

“Do you think I’ll survive the night?” she said, staring up at the ceiling, calling out for the Hidden even though she couldn’t sense them at all.

“It’s in the Lord’s hands now,” he said. He reached down and untucked his white undershirt, and Nimue tried to scramble away at the idea of him undressing, but he only gripped the bottom and tore off a long strip of the fabric.

He held her tightly again as he wound the fabric around her shoulder, concentrating on laying it flat and lifting her shoulder to wrap it underneath.

“At least you’ll get to watch me die,” she joked weakly.

He focused on tying the cloth, his grip still firm on her shoulder. The lantern light painted lines of gold across his cheekbone and his dark scars. “I’ll watch over you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the reason I write. Thank you for all your comments and close reads!


	7. Chapter 7

Nimue woke up in the dead of night, shivering. A shadow moved on her left, and she jumped. Terror raced through her — then the darkness coalesced into the tall form of the Weeping Monk as he leaned forward, his pale eyes wide in the moonlight that drifted through the window. 

His gaze flicked down to her wound. “The healer will arrive tomorrow,” he said. Nimue couldn’t tell if he meant it as a comfort.

She raised a shaking hand to her chest. Her wounds felt like ice. Painfully numb. 

“Will you make it until then?” he said. Still watching her.

Was he concerned, or annoyed? Nimue narrowed her eyes at him anyways. “I’ll survive just to spite you.”

He shrugged, and leaned back in the rickety chair. How long had he been sitting there? How long had she slept? “By all means. I’ve seen enough to believe that your spite holds real power.”

“My power holds real power,” Nimue snapped. She dug her fingers into the makeshift bandage around her chest, trying to reach out for the Hidden. She knew that their silence wasn’t because she was far from the earth. They simply weren’t answering her.

Cold danced through her veins, spiraling out from the arrow’s mark.

The Weeping Monk slowly leaned forward again, tilting his head as he looked her over, from the bedsheets tangled around her ankles, to the muddy tunic-turned-dress, to her bloodstained chest and disheveled hair. 

“And without the sword,” he said slowly, in that dark whisper of his. “How is your power now?”

Now that tone, Nimue could read.

Fury rose up in her, stronger than ever because he’d said exactly what she’d been afraid of.

That without the sword, she had nothing.

She opened her mouth to reply, to break their oath and promise that she still had enough power to kill him, when an icy pain shot through her.

Nimue doubled over, clutching her chest. She felt as through she was being turned to ice from the inside out. As if she were going to freeze to death. As if she would never be warm again.

Nimue did not want to die. At least, she realized. Not like this. Not in this dark room in the night.

Not without a sword in her hand.

But she couldn’t feel her fingers anymore — couldn’t feel her lips. Couldn’t move. She was turning to stone. Becoming ice.

Then a spike of fire curled around her shoulder, drowning out the sharp pain. 

She inhaled a jagged breath, letting that warmth spread through her. With each shaky breath the fire spread through her blood. It reanimated her hands, her face.

Slowly, Nimue opened her eyes again. 

And looked down at her wounds to see the Monk’s hand pressed there, his skin the dark red of maple leaves in autumn.

They both looked up at each other at the same time. He drew in a shaky breath, the only indication that he’d felt the same power just now. The same magic. 

And it had come from him.

He started to draw his hand away but Nimue grabbed it. He maintained his usual grave expression, but Nimue could feel the slight jerk in his hand as she touched him.

“What Fey are you?” She murmured. She leaned in to examine his skin in the moonlight as it swirled from red to deep green leaves, then faded.

He was silent. Nimue began to feel embarrassed about her careful focus on his hand, becoming more aware of every place their hands touched. 

Then, softly, he replied. “Ash Folk.”

She turned his hand over in hers, splaying out his fingers and offering his palm to the light. “Do the Ash Folk have healing properties?”

“I wouldn’t know.” His voice was still low, and this time it was laced with pain.

Nimue stilled, her hand in his, not brave enough to meet his gaze. When had he been taken from his people? She couldn’t imagine him leaving them as an adult. The depth of his faith, that was something you could only create in a child. This man...he didn’t have enough hate in him to join the Red Paladins of his own accord.

It made Nimue feel a flicker of hope, of camaraderie, of the same pain she felt watching her village burn. He must have gone through the same thing. She wanted to ask how it happened, wanted to ask what he did remember — 

But this was the man who had burned her village. Who had slaughtered her people. And she knew that if she opened that door and gazed into his past, and saw him for who he was before Father Carden and this poisonous faith had reached him, she wouldn’t be able to see him for who he was now. For the danger he was to her. She wouldn’t be able to hold that knowledge of both of his selves and face the realization that she might have to undo what she knew and what she thought of him. What she wanted.

Nimue wasn’t brave enough.

She let her hand drift from his.

He curled his fingers back in, pulling his hand back into the shadows of his cloak and lowering his gaze. The motion was soft and delicate. It reminded Nimue of leaves curling into themselves at night, abandoned by the sun.

“But you remember your Fey name,” she said. And before she could stop herself, she murmured it. “Lancelot.”

And, like she wanted, like she had been afraid of, he looked up at her again.

She met his silver gaze and held it. There wasn’t a heaviness there, like last time she looked. She didn’t see the hate that usually spilled out of those eyes. Instead she felt like she could see into them, his name a foothold into that truth of him that she didn’t want to face. A crack in his armor.

And then he did the same to her.

“Nimue.”

She inhaled a little too quickly, and his gaze dropped to her lips. Nimue swallowed, then bit her lips, then raised her hand to her mouth, then regretted everything she’d done in the past three seconds, in the past few minutes, no, since she met him — 

“Father Carden named you the Wolf-blood Witch,” he said, and Nimue tried to regain some semblance of composure as his eyes met hers again. “And your people call me the Weeping Monk.” It took every effort of Nimue’s dwindling strength to avoid looking at his lips as he continued. “We’ve already sworn not to kill each other. Shall we continue to use other people’s names for each other, or our own?”

Nimue’s head swam. Her pulse was still pounding, from her wound and temporary recovery at his hands, from his look, from this proposition. It felt like crossing a line to no longer think of him as the Weeping Monk, to remove his terrifying title and replace it with a name that was true to him.

A name that was Fey.

All of the problems and no-turning-backs and fears that thundered through Nimue’s mind were overshadowed by one feeling — the desire to hear him say her name again. 

And that was strong enough to make her incline her head, just slightly.

He did the same, keeping his piercing eyes trained on her.

She had to turn away. She lay down again, drawing up the covers again and this time making sure that they covered her bare legs. She stared up at the moon through the window.

“Lancelot,” She felt him watching her as she tasted his name again. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

“Nimue,” he said again, and she had to force herself not to turn around to look at him. It took another moment for him to finish his sentence, and she held her breath. “I believe we both have a long enough list of regrets already.”


	8. Chapter 8

Lancelot watched the healer unwrap the bloodstained white cloth from Nimue’s wounds. She was jovial, asking the older woman questions about her family and how long she’d been a healer, and if she’d ever traveled beyond Shorne. Nimue had been in a good mood ever since this morning, when Lancelot returned from town with news about Percival.

That morning, after she had woken up and proven to his satisfaction that she hadn’t succumbed to death in the night, he’d slipped out of the inn towards the small market in the town’s center. He often went on solo missions for Father Carden, and still had a small reserve of coin that was typically used for supplies when he was traveling alone.

Only a few stalls were set up that early. Lancelot managed to purchase a black mask to wrap around the lower half of his face to obscure his scars, as well as a new dark green dress for Nimue. He’d almost given up on that second quest when the tailor began asking about the lady’s measurements. Lancelot could feel his face warm as he rattled off his best guesses. He had seen her soaking wet, after all.

He was still swimming in self reproach as he returned to the inn, finally allowing himself to write off his notice of her body as the same careful attention he would give any of the people he hunted, when the voices of two old men outside a tavern made him slow his steps. 

“Small thing, shouting through the storm,” one of them said with a wheezing laugh. “‘Arthur! Arthur!’ Thought for sure he was mad. He had a dazed look, like he was sleepwalking. Poor little boy. You know as well as I there’s no one in this little place with that name.”

“Not Susanna’s cousin?”

“No,” the first man took a swig of dark beer as Lancelot veered into a dark doorway beside them, his grey cloak swirling through the morning mist. “Not a one. Which is why we were so surprised when we looked out to see the strangers approaching him. We were about to go and save the boy from the rain ourselves when those two rode up.”

“What, a kidnapping?”

“It seemed like it was this Arthur fellow after all — the boy shouted his name again and threw his arms around this stranger like he was the holy savior himself!”

“And where did they go after?” Lancelot said darkly, appearing before the two men like a falcon swooping down from the sky.

One of them shouted and sloshed his beer over the side of his mug. The other turned pale and squinted into the shadows under Lancelot’s hood.

“Who?” said the first man, shakily. 

“The boy and Arthur,” Lancelot said coolly. His fingers wrapped around the pommel of his sword. “I pray that you have a good sense of direction, or you’ll find that not all strangers are saviors.”

# # #

South down the Beggar’s Coast. Easy enough to track, if they were sticking close to the shore. The thought of not telling Nimue lasted only briefly. He would have gone after Arthur and the boy himself, but he wasn’t about to leave her behind. Better to take her with him and bring her closer to what she wanted. His plans required a ship — he could play the role of her protector until then.

“So he’s safe? They both are?” she said when he told her, a grin splitting her beautiful face. Lancelot had stared down at her, waiting for her to realize who she was smiling at. Waiting for that expression of pure joy to turn into guarded hope when she remembered who he was.

But she hadn’t looked away or dampened her grin because of him. So he was left stunned in the full force of her happiness, until the healer had knocked on the door and broke Lancelot out of the spell.

He watched her now as she spoke with the healer, her voice light. There was an inextinguishable brightness about her. He’d seen it even when she was drowning in the lake.

And what surprised him the most, then and now, was that he hadn’t felt God’s call to destroy that unnatural light, like Father Carden had. No, he’d felt a different sort of call.

A call to protect.

Nimue glanced over her shoulder at him while the healer bent over her shoulder. A small smile still played around her lips, as if she’d never quite gotten rid of the one from earlier. Lancelot knew he needed to look away and regain his composure. He would get pulled in again and lured by her Fey beauty, like Father Carden had warned him about.

Instead he looked back. 

Nimue didn’t look away. What did she want from him? He was still wearing his mask, so she wouldn’t be able to see if he smiled back. Not that he was going to, not even in answer to hers. 

If Lancelot thought about it, and he felt free to think these things only because he knew his expression was obscured by his mask and his hood, what he really wanted to do when she looked at him like that was cross the space between them and capture the curve of her lips in his. And then he’d bite her bottom lip, he thought. Then when she was gasping he might drag his mouth down her jaw, to her neck.

Lancelot knew that this was all just part of her Fey temptation. He’d been ready for it for months, ever since he’d learned of her existence. But he was only just starting to feel it now, that pull and desire that made godly men weak. 

He let himself drift into the fantasies as he watched Nimue turn away from his gaze, helping the healer knot the new bandage around her arm. He’d already learned the hard way that trying to stifle the wanting completely only lead to a breaking point. He could endure these Fey visions and this strange new desire for her, knowing that it wasn’t real. He had been warned. He might now think of her as Nimue instead of the witch that he was, but he was strong enough to still see the danger of her. Strong enough to survive her and this wanting until he got his ship and enacted his plan.

He was a patient man.


	9. Chapter 9

Nimue didn’t ask where he got the gold for the horses. It could have been more hidden Fey magic, or even the work of his strange god — she didn’t care. Squirrel was safe. Arthur was safe. And she was going to see both of them soon.

Nothing could stop her smile as they rode the new horses out of Shorne, both of them hooded, Nimue in her new dress and cloak. She hadn’t asked about those, either. Things were finally going her way. She didn’t even look back suspiciously at her traveling companion like she would have only a day ago. 

Instead, she turned her grin on him. He’d saved Squirrel. He’d saved her — brought her to Shorne and then literally healed her. Nimue didn’t know what would happen when they reached her court and he faced justice for his other deeds. All she knew was that what he’d done when he was with her was enough to make her believe he wouldn’t kill her.

Was enough to make her feel safe, even.

Lancelot frowned when her smiling gaze met his. He’d tugged down his mask but kept his hood up as he rode a new black horse. She supposed in another circumstance he might paint a terrifying picture, the way those shadows under his hood hid the light color of his eyes, bringing focus to those dark scars. But she had another image of him now; those eyes wide and desperate in candlelight, that hand that easily wielded a sword pressed against her wound. 

His brow furrowed the longer she stared at him. A little humor leaked into her smile at the sight of how stoic he was.

As if determined to break apart her happiness, he spoke in a low whisper that carried across the road between them. “What did the healer say?”

Nimue turned away from him, steering her horse back on the path. He must have overheard, or at least suspected the news. Or maybe he spotted the new jar of ointment that was stowed in her saddlebag.

“It was a poison,” she murmured. The healer had showed her the dark black pulsing veins while Lancelot was getting supplies that morning. 

There were soft hoofbeats beside her, and then he drew even with her horse. He ducked his head to see under her own hood, his eyes still in shadow. “And is the poison gone?” 

That even, low voice. Nimue wished he would be unsettled about something, anything, and not just speak in that same measured tone. She couldn’t tell if he wanted her to be sick or cared if she lived.

She faced him with what she hoped was an equally unreadable expression. “Not all the way.”

He reached out and grabbed the reins of her horse, slowing both of their mounts down to a full stop. Nimue turned to him with an incredulous look as he spoke.

“Then you should heal completely before continuing on.” Those eyes were pure ice now, fixed on her.

She should have known better than to taunt the spirits with her happiness. She yanked her reins out of his grip. “I’m certainly healthy enough to reunite with my people. Then we can go about healing me completely. When there’s time.” She clicked her tongue, urging her horse forward down the wooded path. 

“Who shot you?” he said, his mount easily keeping pace with hers. She knew she couldn’t outrun him even if she wanted to, even when he was on an unfamiliar horse.

“Iris,” she said darkly. “Just a young girl. She...was misled.”

“Are all of your enemies misled, or only the ones who’ve shot you?”

She looked over at him, but she couldn’t see anything of his face under the hood. “Are you asking for yourself?”

“You seem willing to extend patience and forgiveness to someone who nearly killed you,” he turned then, letting the thin sunlight illuminate half of his face. “Is it too much to hope that your people might extend the same mercy to me?”

Nimue let out a hollow laugh. “Is that really what you want?”

He stayed facing her as their horses slowed. “Yes. I will face their trial, as you’ve said. In the hopes that they will grant me passage on a ship.”

Nimue turned in her saddle to look at him fully. “I believe that you won’t kill me. Fine. But that you want forgiveness?” His expression was still impenetrable. Nimue had had enough. “Then prove it. Get down.”

There — a slight crease between his brows, the only sign of confusion. Gone in a split second as he gracefully slid off his horse as Nimue jumped off hers. She took his reins from him, tugging them a little more forcefully than necessary out of his grip. 

She looped both sets of reins around a low hanging branch and turned back to him. Before he could react she was striding up to him, close enough to feel his sharp intake of breath as she raised her hands to either side of his face. 

“Show me your true form,” she murmured. Her thumbs brushed the edges of his scars as her hands cradled his face.

He wrapped both of his hands over hers. “Is this necessary?” Oh, he was doing such a good job of schooling his features into stone, but Nimue could feel the slight tremble in his hands. What was that from? Fear? Lying? Whatever it was, she had to break through this pretending. She wouldn’t let a man this dangerous among her people until she really understood what he wanted.

“If you’re so disgusted by the Fey, how can you truly want forgiveness from them?” she said. Her thumb stroked the soft spot just beneath his eye. His scars. He gazed down at her, and his hands tightened their grip over hers.

She stood up on her toes to get closer to his face. She searched his gaze as she murmured. “I think you’re lying to me, Lancelot.”

He moved so fast she couldn’t even cry out. One minute she was holding his face, and the next she was on her back on the forest floor, his body covering her and his cloak shielding them from the sun like the black wing of a hunting bird.

“What do you want me to say?” he said, and his eyes glinted silver in the low light. “That I plan on murdering you and your little friends? That I’ll lead the red paladins to your hideout?”

“You’re too smart for plans that simple,” she shot back. “You murdered your own just to rescue Squirrel. You know that they won’t take you back easily. But you should also know — “ she sat up, pressing her hand against his chest. “I’m not some innocent Fey maid, easily bought by heroic rescues or sad stories about your past.” Even though she might be swayed, if she actually asked him for those stories. If she actually listened. 

His lips curled into a sneer. “And you should know I’m not some foolish youth easily swayed by Fey wiles.”

“Wiles?” Nimue’s confusion was sincere as she processed his words, his look of disgust. And then looked down at her hand, still pressed against his chest. 

And then she laughed.

When she opened her eyes again, wiping at the corners of her eyes, his expression was finally unsettled. By the Hidden. This man was both easy and impossible to understand, all at once.

“You are a fool,” she said, with laughter still lacing her voice. “A self-absorbed fool. Wiles. Believe me, Lancelot,” she said, watching for that little flinch when she said his name. Good. He’d asked for it. “If I wanted to seduce you, if I was actually trying, you would be on your knees begging me to make you my king. You would be worshipping — ”

He grabbed her chin, pulling her closer. “Now who’s self-absorbed?” She’d thought she’d thrown him off balance, but the look he gave her was as even and certain as his strike with a blade. “Go on. What else do you imagine me doing, in this little fantasy where I want you?”

“Well,” Nimue breathed, trying to ignore the sparks where his fingers met her skin. “Now I’m much more interested in your fantasies of me.”

He tilted his head back, observing her like he was her executioner. But his pause was enough to tell Nimue that she was right — he did have fantasies.

Now that was new information. 

“Is that what you expected when you rescued me?” she said, unable to resist stroking at this new wound of his. This new weakness. She didn’t let herself imagine the possibility of them together, because then that might become her weakness, too. No, she had to stay focused. Focused on taunting him, on unbalancing him, on tricking him into revealing what he really wanted from her. She dug her fingers into the fabric of his cloak. “Did you imagine I would kiss you, in my haze of gratitude?”

His eyes narrowed. “That would require you being grateful in the first place.”

“Oh, I am grateful,” she tugged him closer, pulling on his tunic, and even though they both knew he was strong enough to resist he let himself be led closer to her as she whispered, “That I was rescued by a man so idiotic as to think that I would waste time trying to bed him when I have hundreds of lives to protect.” 

And with that, she pushed him with enough force to send him toppling backwards onto the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love all of you and your comments, you keep me going! There might be some directions or backstory in this fic that aren't quite what you're expecting, but I'm glad you're reading. There's so much to explore in this world and between these two!


	10. Chapter 10

Lancelot lay, stunned, on his back after she pushed him. He watched the sun dance across the forest leaves. He’d never been bested in a fight. Had that been a fight? It had been a moment of weakness. 

Why in hell had he ever said that to her? It wasn’t like he’d confessed to fantasizing about her, but she seemed to think that he’d revealed much more than that. He was both tempted to take advantage of her clear discomfort with the subject and terrified at what might be revealed the deeper he went down that road.

He put his full force behind his prayer as he gazed up at the heavens — God, give me a sign that I may kill this witch.

But as soon as she hovered over him, blocking out the sun’s light with her own, her mouth twisted into a tight frown that did nothing to mar her beauty, he remembered that she wasn’t a witch to him. Not anymore. She was Nimue.

And she was getting worryingly close to figuring out his plans. 

He sat up, slowly, and he could tell that his deadly calm was unsettling her. Good. It was the bare minimum reaction to have to a man like him, who had defeated the greatest warriors of her kind and his. 

She was good at hiding her fear, but terrible at masking the curiosity and desire that was laced through it. If he were a member of Nimue’s court he would train her in guarding her emotions. There were evil men who might take advantage of such a weakness.

And he was one of them.

“I never suspected you’d try to bed me,” he said evenly. “I never thought you’d be...” he let his gaze drift down, examining her lips, her collarbone, back up to her ocean-deep eyes. “...able to handle it.”

The challenge sparked her gaze as she lifted her chin. “Bold words from a monk. Have you ever even seen a girl before me?”

He leaned forward, and cupped her face in his hand. A moment of regret as he saw the dirt from his hand leave a smear across her pale skin. But she didn’t seem to notice, her eyes wide and fixed on him. 

“Of course I have,” he murmured. “And you’re the same as all of them.” Her gaze hardened as he let condescension slip into his voice. “Distractions.”

He brushed his thumb against the edge of her mouth. 

Fury lit her eyes, and this time he gave himself over to her movements as she pushed him back down to the ground again and swung her leg over his hip. He let his hands rest brazenly against her thighs, and she didn’t seem to notice as she bent over him, her long brown hair brushing his chest.

“You think I care about seducing some murderous snake? You think I care about your opinion of me? You have no idea what I’ve done,” she hissed. Lancelot felt consumed by the fire behind her eyes. She put her hand on his shoulder as if that would be enough to keep him down. “Or what I’m capable of doing.” 

It was almost disappointing, how easy it was to turn her from suspicion of him to defensiveness of her own experiences. But it was no longer just a distraction for Lancelot — he had to admit he was curious.

“Oh?” he drawled, putting one of his hands behind his head. “Who was the foolish Fey boy who tried to tangle with you?” She seemed to really believe that there was truth behind his taunting. Unlike her, he was a good actor. He really did wish she would learn how to read people and how to conceal her own emotions. 

She sat back, keeping her hand on his chest as she looked down at him. The sun draped light through her hair. “He was human, actually.”

A strange pain laced through Lancelot, tugging on his chest. His hand around her thigh tightened.

He tried to hide the hitch in his breath as she watched him. It felt like a tightening in an unfamiliar muscle, in that part of him he’d always worked so hard to stifle. There was something pulling within him. Pulling towards her. 

Something like...jealousy.

This was what Father Carden warned him about. There were so many weaknesses in his Fey nature that made him susceptible to demons and distractions from God’s path. Regardless of the Fey, even any romantic feelings were dangerous. He should stop this game with Nimue and pull her attention away from what he was planning some other way.

So why did he sit up, sliding his hand from her leg to her waist to keep her close to him, and tilt his head down to her ear, close enough to bite her neck if he wanted to, and whisper, “And did that human boy satisfy you?”

From the corner of his eye he could see her swallow, her lashes almost brushing his cheek as her eyes lowered. They were so close. Close enough for so many things to happen, if he was a less godly man.

Part of him wondered, and then hoped, that she might give in to her own Fey desires so he wouldn’t have to wrestle with his own anymore.

She put her hand over his where he gripped her waist. “Why would you care about that?” Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his. “When you could never satisfy me?”

He struggled to think of what to say or do as a response that wouldn’t reveal his own inexperience. Why had he started down this road with her? He could meet her on the battlefield, yes, but he needed to admit defeat in this realm, because he had no idea what happened next.

He looked down at her, and he could tell from her gaze that there was no affection there. Desire, yes, but no more of that strange pull or Fey feelings. This was pure anger. 

And because of that, because it was a challenge, a spar, a fight, Lancelot leaned forward and captured her lips in his.


	11. Chapter 11

Nimue didn’t think he would do it. She thought she had a guaranteed win in this one area. She could never defeat him in combat, not without the sword of power. She could barely hold her own even with the Hidden. It wasn’t as if she had been losing to him constantly — no, he hadn’t even let them get in a real fight. He seemed so uninterested in tangling with her. Always so certain in his victories. Certain in his plans, whatever they were. So Nimue had just wanted to throw him off balance. To prove to both of them that she wasn’t completely helpless and completely naive.

As he kissed her, she realized that both of them had miscalculated. 

She hadn’t realized he might actually accept her challenge. And, as she felt his grip tighten on her leg, his other hand lifting to cup the back of her neck, she knew that he hadn’t predicted how much he’d like it. 

Nimue was so wrapped up in her surprise and calculations that it took her a moment to actually register what was happening. She responded without thinking, bringing her hand up to wrap around the thick fabric of his hood to anchor herself against the force of him pressing into her. Her other hand dug into the earth. It did little to ground her.

His lips were soft and certain. His stubble scratched her chin. His hand behind her neck kept her anchored to him. She realized she was kissing him back, exploring the shape of his mouth, the conflicting sensations that sent shivers through her. 

Better to focus on that than the conflicting feelings.

She had to end this. She pulled his hood down, weaving her hands through the strands of his brown hair that was still tied back. She tugged his head away from hers, and he looked down at her, his eyes hooded, his gaze slivers of silver.

“Admit defeat,” Nimue murmured, glancing down at his swollen lips, still parted. She resisted the urge to feel her own. “Admit you want me.”

His expression turned from hazy desire into something sharper, and certainty curled his mouth. “If that’s defeat, then we both lose.”

Nimue opened her mouth to deny that she wanted him, but instead of saying those words she only closed the space between them again.

He wrapped his arm around her waist tighter and returned the force behind her lips. She was still straddling him, and without realizing it she pressed her thighs together, fitting herself closer into him.

A low groan leaked out from between his lips, and he dragged his fingernails down her spine. Nimue exhaled against his cheek, still cupping his face. He was right, she realized. The only way to win would be to feel nothing.

And that wasn’t true for her.

She rocked her hips experimentally, and his hands dug into her skin. He fixed her with a dark, warning stare. 

Maybe there was another way to win. 

She pressed her lips against the corner of his mouth, his chin, his jaw. She felt him swallow as her mouth brushed against his neck. He was still beneath her, frozen. Exposed.

She could slit his throat if he stayed like this. If she had a knife.

If she wanted to.

It should have been so simple. Even with their temporary truce, even though he’d saved her and Squirrel, she should still hate him. Should still want revenge for all he’d done. But breathing in the scent of him, pine and smoke, with the feel of his hands and lips claiming her, Nimue had to admit that she didn’t want to kill him anymore. 

She wanted something much more difficult to get from him.

He seemed to sense her hesitation as she breathed against his neck, and he pulled away, his hands sliding from her hips up to her waist. Lighter. Less certain.

“You can end this, Nimue,” he said, and finally there was a crack in the shield of his blue eyes. He gazed down at her mouth. “Just say you’re disgusted. Say you don’t want this.” His thumb stroked her spine, as if in farewell. “Say you don’t want me.”

The words transported Nimue into a memory. Another boy she’d wanted, she’d had hopes for. Not just wanting him but the idea of him wanting her.

Being pushed away. Called a witch.

How quickly those eyes full of wanting turned into hatred.

Nimue looked up at Lancelot. His gaze was masked again, that unfeeling face that she could imagine a killer would have. She knew that she didn’t look the same. Her emotions had always been on display. If she were disgusted by him, if she pushed him away now and said she didn’t want him, he would believe her. 

But Nimue didn’t want to look at someone else the same way she’d been seen her whole life. The way she’d been tricked into believing she was desirable and good and then taunted for ever believing she could be wanted. With Arthur — she’d believed Arthur wanted her, yes, but would he want her forever? After everything she’d done? After this? Would he look at her the same, always?

People always changed. Even if they desired her at first they always realized she was a monster or a witch eventually. They always realized she was cursed.

This time, she’d be ready.

“You tell me,” she said to Lancelot, willing her own expression into stone. “Why would you want to kiss a witch?” She wanted to see him change. She needed to remind herself that she wouldn’t ever be wanted by him, not really. Better that it happen now before anything worse happened between them.

But the change in his eyes wasn’t one of fear or disgust, but determination.

And something like fire.

“Why would I kiss a witch?” his hand slid up her back, and he leaned down, breathing against her lips. His tongue ran across her bottom lip, and Nimue let out a small gasp, leaning forward but he pulled back. “Because she tastes like this.” He shifted his legs out from under her, laying her down on the forest floor, his tall form hovering over her as he lowered his head to her neck, mirroring her position from earlier as he inhaled at her collarbone. “Because she smells like this.” His hand curved around her waist, up to her ribcage. Nimue held her breath as his thumb brushed against the underside of her breast. “Because she feels like this.”

Nimue felt like she was going to catch fire.

She couldn’t sit still. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and threw all her weight into pushing him aside to sit on top of him again. 

They were both breathing hard — she could see the rise and fall of his chest as he looked up at her with those eyes, so bright without the shadows of his cloak. Shining above the dark scars down his cheeks. She could feel that her face was flushed, her hair in disarray. 

She should taunt him about his god, take advantage of his weakness. But Nimue had run out of things to say. She leaned forward to capture his lips in hers again.

Then she saw motion in the trees in front of her. A rustling, and the sleeve of a dark red cloak.

Then the silver tip of an arrow, trained on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers, might be a day or two delay on the next update -- might also need to change from updating three times a week, but will be back soon. Thank you for reading! <3


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